Don't Call Me Gringa

Here I am on an airplane again, wishing I could sleep a few hours before arriving in the U.S., but despite sleeping only about an hour and a half last night, I’m not having much success doing so today either.  Maybe I’m still keyed up from the crazy trip down the mountain I had this morning to get to the airport. (My friend picked me up an hour and a half late!)

But here I am, reflecting on the last couple weeks in Venezuela.   I finished my second semester at la UCV, and while I'm awaiting my grades for two classes, I know that in my other two classes, I got the second highest final grade! It’s interesting to note how U.S. university privacy standards don't in Venezuela.  Lists with names and scores are sent via email and posted in the graduate school office for all to see.  Final papers are left in the office, where students read each other’s graded papers.

In addition to picking up papers and packing suitcases, I’ve tried to spend the last few days enjoying all I can of Caracas before leaving.  I climbed my the Ávila mountain, visited the monkeys in Parque del Este, and ate casave, plantains and mango. Some friends and I celebrated my farewell last night at Café Ayuama, where I sang karaoke to a song by the soulful Latin icon Celia Cruz. Seeing a gringa performing “La Negra Tiene Tumbao” (“That black woman has rhythm”) must have been amusing for those present.

I’m returning to the U.S. with a tan, thanks to a couple quick beach trips last weekend, when I had the chance to play “beach rackets” and attempt to go surfing again.  I’ve gotten to the kneeling phase, but I still can’t stand up.

Politics is active as usual as the the Recall election for President Hugo Chávez draws near. The block outside my apartment has become an ideological battleground for government supporters and opposition as each side sets up camp on one side of the street.  Red-shirted chavistas hand out information sheets about how to vote “No” using the voting machines, while the Opposition volunteers pass out "Sí" signs and stickers to passing cards.  Both sides have highly political music; those representing “No” are folky jingles, those for “Sí” are inspirational, nationalistic songs.  There are frequent shouting matches between groups, and passing cars emit honks of protest and agreement.  

Now I’m headed back to the land with its own set of political debates, where security concerns have more to do with rarer terrorist attacks instead of more frequent robberies.  At this time, I don’t whether the U.S. or Venezuela is more secure. 

I must start to get myself back in the American mindset—saying “thank you” instead of “gracias,” keeping to my own side of the sidewalk and hallways and arriving places on time.  I’ll have slightly broken English for a while again, and it will likely take a few days to start dreaming in English instead of Spanish.  Maybe I'll dream in “Spanglish,” reflecting the blend of cultures I’ve happily become.